With Vodka And Boxcutters
by chasingdragondreams
Summary: "I operated," she tells him, remembering their first case, the way he had feigned ignorance of her guilty conscience to save her feelings. "On a relative of the mobsters. With vodka and boxcutters." (the imagined aftermath of 02x21)


**Author's note: ****(Spoiler Alert) ****As everyone who watched "Blood Is Thicker" or Thursday's episode knows, the opening of the New York branch of _Diogenes _is revealed to be the result of a hidden agenda, influenced by a powerful criminal syndicate that Watson gets on the wrong side of.**

**Some viewers were expecting the sudden reveal of his heavy ties to the British government due to their knowledge of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's original works, or the ever-popular _BBC's Sherlock_.**

**In any case, I don't think any of us will be forgetting those little three words anytime soon.**

**I apologize for my butchering of the introductory quote by Sherlock, I was going off of my terrible hearing without the aid of any subtitles whatsoever. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"Now, you stand between me and the recovery of someone who I care for more of depth than I am capable of mustering.

She is remarkable in ways that you could never imagine.

I would trade your life for her's without a moment's thought."

- Paint It Black, 02x22

* * *

The men who pour out of the tinted cars are quick and professional, checking her vital signs thoroughly before politely requesting that she "get in the car, ma'am" and locking the doors. Through the darkened glass she can see Mycroft's lips moving as the intelligence swarms the crime scene, leaving no trace of an exchange gone awry. She doesn't miss the figures bustling around with body bags or the way Mycroft's presence demands a salute, _yessir_.

It serves as a reminder that he is no longer the kind man that charmed Ms. Hudson so (for she would not open the door for just any stranger, no matter how insisting).

Everything from the past two days hits her like a piledriver in her dazed state as she compares her actions (pathetic, pathetic) to what _he_ would have done. She paints a picture in her mind of her clever roommate escaping the dark alleyway, dialing the precinct, picking the car lock.

If Sherlock were in her place, he would have demanded answers, refuse to be herded shell-shocked into the backseat of a government car, anything more than that sorrowful look.

("I just thought you should know the truth before you return to him.")

It strikes her, belatedly, that Mycroft sounds so very much like Sherlock when he's being commanding.

Her eyes meet his through the window while he speaks rapidly to an unseen person, presumably via hidden microphone. He cannot possibly see due to the one-way design, but she drags her gaze away towards the pristine leather seats and respectfully silent escort.

The sickening feel doesn't disappear after the cars pull away, the smell of tire skids and recently expelled firearms curiously absent.

* * *

They settle her in an interrogation room under the guise of privacy, turning on their neatly polished boots with smart salutes. The time spent travelling to the brownstone is much less than the time spent parked outside, waiting for Sherlock.

Mycroft's attempts to start conversation wither and die after the fourth hour she spends sitting in the car, wishing he hadn't crushed their phones under his heel. When they finally get a hold of him, his voice snakes from the receiver, icily addressing his brother.

"Mycroft. Having stolen my _only _chance to save Watson from _your_ _stupid business partners-_"

Watson waits silently as the insults work their way up to bellowed death threats, accompanied by a cacophony of background crashes. It takes several minutes for Sherlock to calm down enough to listen to more than three syllables at a time.

"Watson?" came the immediate response, returning to her surname, normality, regularity. "Watson, are you alright?"

"I operated," she tells him, remembering their first case, the way he had feigned ignorance of her guilty conscience to save her feelings. "On a relative of the mobsters. With vodka and _boxcutters_."

He doesn't need to guess how that story ends, and she doesn't need to tell him. There is some strange coincidence of the mercy killing compared to the accidental cut years before, made in less than ten seconds with pristine surgical steel.

"My dear Watson," he responds quietly, and the rest of his hurried cab ride is spent with the phone pressed flush against his ears, waiting for a crackle.


End file.
